The rest of the Angels, meanwhile, stand outside a small fortified village. Wyrmwatch stands within a large open space of about thirty miles, between the jungle and the foothills of the Endworld Mountains, which separate western and northern Q’barra from the Talenta plains. A number of armed guards face them, while others look down from positions atop the wooden wall, with arrows nocked in their half-raised bows.
“Who are you?” asks the guard leader suspiciously. “And how did you just appear out there?”
“We teleported,” says Nameless, a trifle grandiosely. “And we are the Guardian Angels.”
There is an expectant pause, and then the guard says, “Who? Never heard of you.”
The Angels exchange surprised glances, and then Six says to the others, “This doesn’t really look like a place the Korranberg Chronicle comes to, you know.”
“No, it doesn’t,” says the guard, eyeing the warforged up and down. “We don’t get your kind here either, warforged.” Then he turns his attention to Gareth. “So you are a worshipper of the Flame?”
“Yes,” says Gareth, even more grandly than Nameless a moment earlier. “I am the champion of the Silver Flame.” The effect is slightly spoiled by the snort of laughter from Korm, which Gareth ignores.
“A champion of the Silver Flame?”
“The champion of the Silver Flame.”
The man shrugs. “Whatever. But you’re welcome here.”
“Good,” says Nameless. “Now let us in and take us to your leader.”
The gradual changes to the alienist are slowly affecting his demeanor and manner of speech, and the comment is delivered – intentionally or not – with an undertone which says that he has far more important things to deal with than an unimportant watchman. The guard bristles and begins, “Listen, you ….”
Time for a little demonstration. Nameless begins to cast a spell, planning to produce a few pseudonatural allies to make a point. Instantly, the guards grab at their weapons, and those above raise and prepare to fire their bows. Gareth responds as quickly, grabbing Nameless’ arm and interrupting his spell. “What are you doing? There’s no need for that!”
Turning to the guard, the paladin says quickly, “Pardon my friend’s hastiness. We have had a long day and are tired. We are here on an urgent matter and need to speak to your village leader. Why don’t you take us to him and let him decide how to respond, rather than arguing out here?”
The guard leader slowly takes his hand off his weapon and nods. “All right. But no spellcasting in there.” He bestows a dirty look on Nameless, who ignores him.
The man turns and leads the Angels in, followed by a few of the guards. As they pass through the village, the Angels scan it for signs of anything strange, but find it looking quite normal. It might as well be a village in the middle of Breland, except for the higher number of weapons that are visible, and that is understandable considering where it is located. Many people look suspiciously at the newcomers and whispers follow them through the village, as do a few of the more curious onlookers.
The growing group quickly arrives in what passes as the village square, an open space in front of some of the larger huts, where small trees have been allowed to grow and a number of seats have been set up in small groups. Most of them are occupied, especially by older villagers, while others stand and talk. Children run and play around them.
The guard leads the Angels to the largest group and then salutes a stout man with a large bushy beard, who has turned to watch the newcomers. “Elder Nevillom,” he says respectfully, “These people just arrived here. They said they have something important to tell you.”
The bearded man rises, smiles as he sees the symbols on Gareth’s armor, and extends a hand to him. “It’s a pleasure to meet fellow worshippers out here. Welcome to Wyrmwatch. I’m Nevillom. How can I help you?”
Gareth nods and gets directly to the point. “I’ve heard that you are attempting to restart the Thranish Inquisition here.”
There is an amusing moment as the friendly look remains on Nevillom’s face for a second, while his brain tries to realize what Gareth just said. Then his face darkens and his expression turns stony. “What?”
Gareth’s tone is stony as he replies. “The lycanthropic purge. I believe you’re restarting it?”
“Where did … what business is this of yours?” asks Nevillom. Angry mutterings run through the people around them, and some of the guards ready their weapons. Korm casually raises a hand to his sword and says, “Guy’s got a point, Gareth.”
With all the attention focused on Gareth and Nevillom, Six quietly sidles away. Walking around a hut, he uses his hat to appear to be a human dressed in clothing like that worn by the villagers. He looks around and catches sight of a hut some distance away, which has two armed guards outside, both of whom are moving towards the village square. Six proceeds to make his way quickly in that direction, heading for the rear of the hut.
The discussion – or argument – behind him continues. “I’m making it my business,” says Gareth. “I am the champion of the Silver Flame and if what you do affects the reputation of the Silver Flame, it matters to me. And I will stop you.”
Nevillom’s face is blood-red by this point. “I don’t care who you think you are. You have no business walking in here and trying to dictate how I protect my people!” He lifts a hand, quivering with passion, and points. “Get out!”
Nameless shakes his head. “Seriously, you should calm down and answer the questions. Believe me, you’re getting a good deal today. We didn’t bring the mean one!” Korm nods. “True. And she’s bigger than us all too. Combined.”
Clearly nobody is listening to the pair, and Nevillom bellows, “I told you to get out. Now!” Gareth shakes his head. “No. You will answer my questions first.”
One of the guards angrily says, “You can’t talk to the Elder like that!” and shoves the paladin. For all the good it does, he might as well have tried to kick over the Endworld Mountains. Gareth turns to look at the man, even as Nevillom shouts, “Throw them out!” The rest of the guards pile forward, trying to comply. Others in the area hurriedly try to get out of the way, especially the women, trying to gather up their children.
“Fine,” says Nameless, deftly evading the grasp of a couple of guards. He gestures and casts, causing a cloud of nauseating vapor to envelop Nevillom and those around him. Frightened screams, followed swiftly by gasps, choking and the sound of multiple people voiding the contents of their stomachs, follows.
Shoving another guard away with a force that sends him and two others tumbling, Gareth shouts, “Nameless – don’t kill anybody! There are women and children around!”
“I’m not that dumb,” says Nameless, in the process of rising into the air, only pausing to smack a persistent guard with his tentacle. Which completely confuses the man, since Nameless’ magical disguise makes it appear that he has two normal human arms. “The stinking cloud will keep them from getting themselves into more trouble.”
“Spoilsport!” says Korm, his happy grin belying the comment, having seized a man by shirt and belt and hoisted him above his head. The Gatekeeper swings the hapless guard in a wide arc, clearing a space around him, and then tosses the guard into the arms of his fellows with a force that knocks them all to the ground.
“Oh, look!” says Nameless, looking around from his elevated vantage. “We’re being attacked by more villagers. How terrifying!” He studies the angles that the armed men are approaching from and says, “Korm. Notice the vegetation there? Want to slow them down?”
“Sure.” Korm casts and the advancing attackers cry out in surprise as the limited plant life in the area reaches out and seizes most of them.
“Nice work,” says Nameless, and then noting that some people, including Nevillom, are staggering from the cloud, casts another spell of his own. Three giant stag beetles appear, with mottled green and purple tentacles writhing. As they move to strike, driven by the magic of the spell, Nameless shouts a command. They hesitate for a second and then simply walk over some of the armed men and then squat down, knocking them to the ground. The frightened captives shout and strike at them, but their simple weapons ring uselessly off the beetles’ carapaces. Nevillom, already nauseated by the cloud, doesn’t even have that option, being pinned face down by the largest of the beetles.
“You really should be running away,” Nameless explains to the few remaining armed men, as he flies over towards them. One promptly raises his crossbow and fires, striking the mage right in the middle of his chest. Or what seems to be the case, since Nameless’ magical disguise conceals the fact that it is merely a flesh wound, the bolt embedding itself as much in his coat as in his flesh. He smiles, pulls out the bolt, and says, “That was a good shot! Would you like a job?” The horrified archer screams, throws away his crossbow and flees, followed by his fellows.
Some distance away, Six shrugs inwardly as he hears hostilities commence. Having found no easy ingress, with even the two windows being boarded and nailed shut, he simply carves a hole in the rear wall and looks in. The unusual vision granted by the implanted third eye lets him see clearly into the dark hut. The interior is in a squalid condition and even his limited sense of smell detects the sharp tang of urine and the stench of fresh excreta.
Three figures look back in surprise at the disguised warforged silhouetted in the opening. All three are human, two male and one female, and each is also chained at neck and waist to a separate thick post that has been driven into the dirt floor. Their condition is deplorable, all three being smeared in the bodily waste that covers the ground around the posts.
After a moment of amazement, the woman asks, “Who are you?” Then, as the sounds from outside penetrate, she adds, “What’s going on out there?” One of the men is more direct, begging, “Please – you must free us! They’re going to kill us all!”
“All right,” says Six. “I’ll take you outside. Just follow me, do what I say and you’ll be safe.” But I’m not sure I want to free you yet. He enters and begins to hack the tops and bottoms off the posts, so that he can take the three people outside while they are still attached.
As he deals with the post to which the first of the men is attached, the man convulses as if in pain. Six quickly steps back, watching as hair erupts all over the man’s form, while his features turn bestial and lupine. In seconds, a hybrid made of wolf and human stands in the peasant’s place. It glares at Six and leaps, fangs and claws bared, dragging the post behind as if it weighed nothing.
Unfortunately for the werewolf, the only result is that a heavy blow knocks it backwards to the ground, where it is quickly bludgeoned into unconsciousness. Six then turns to the other two, who are cowering as far back as their bindings allow them. “Are you werewolves too?” he asks.
“Yes,” says the woman finally says, “But we don’t want to be. Please help us!”
“All right. But don’t do what your friend here did.” Six continues to free the three and then proceeds to take them outside, dragging the unconscious werewolf behind him. By the time he rejoins the other Angels, they are standing around Nevillom, whom Korm is holding in mid-air, watched by villagers from a safe distance.
“Take what you want!” Nevillom screams, “You know we cannot resist your foul powers!”
“For the third time,” says Gareth irritably, “We’re not here to rob you. We’re here to stop you restarting the Inquisition.”
“And for the fourth time,” Nevillom yells, “We are … not … restarting the Inquisition!”
“I found some werewolves,” puts in Six.
“See?” says Gareth triumphantly.
“See what?!” howls the near apoplectic village leader. “They are lycanthropes! We had them locked up and were deciding what to do.”
“Where did they come from?”
“A werewolf attacked some of our villagers four days ago and though we managed to kill it, some people were wounded. These three succumbed to the curse and so I had them locked away for the safety of the village.” Nevillom pauses, takes a deep breath and says, slightly more calmly, “What do you want?”
“I want the Inquisition to stop,” says Gareth.
Almost weeping with fury, Nevillom screams, “There … is … NO … Inquisition!”
“Okay, we need to talk about this,” says Korm to his companions, before adding to Nevillom, “Don’t go away.” The command seems a little unnecessary, since he continues to carry the hapless man at the end of an extended arm while he and his friends go into a huddle. After a short discussion, he turns to Nevillom and says, “We’re going to take these three away, cure them and let them go.”
Nevillom nods. “Yes, I could hear you. Please do so. And can you put me down?”
Korm does so and then turns to the three prisoners, or at least the two conscious ones. “You clearly don’t have a life here any more. Is there anywhere you’d rather go? We can drop you off at Newthrone and cure you too.”
The surprised pair look at each other and then quickly agree, asking only to be allowed to recover some possessions and say goodbye to their families. The unconscious werewolf is revived and, after changing form, also comes to precisely the same agreement.
While Six escorts them as they collect their belongings, Gareth turns back to Nevillom. “You need to do something about your reputation. We were told that you were restarting the Inquisition here.”
Nevillom glares at the paladin. “What can we do if people slander us? We are simple people, living according to our faith. One would think a supposed champion of the Silver Flame would understand that. Who was it that told you these lies?”
“Alzia ir’Kesslan, first minister to King Sebastes, in Newthrone. You should inform them about the situation.”
“There is two hundred miles of jungle between Newthrone and us,” points out Nevillom. “How exactly do you suggest I keep them informed about our village?”
Gareth shrugs. “I don’t know. But it’s worth doing. Otherwise, people may think that such things are happening here, and some will not like it. If a really large bear attacks your village at some point, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“A bear?!”
Korm nods. “Sadly, he’s not lying.” He looks at Nameless. “You think she’s managed to kill the pirate prince yet?”
* * *
Luna, on the contrary, is thinking of doing other things to the prince. When she is ushered into a comfortable sitting room to meet him, she finds Ryger ir’Wynarn to be a tall and athletic man in what looks to be his late thirties or early forties, with a bronzed complexion and long hair tied back in a ponytail. Cool blue eyes look out from above a hawkish nose and a rakish moustache. When Luna enters, he rises and takes her hand, bowing and bestowing a kiss on it, before sliding his arm through hers as he leads her to a couch. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, lady Luna. Welcome to my home.”
Ooh, baby – come to mama! Luna smiles broadly at Ryger and seats herself, trying to focus on something besides his smile**. “Thank you. You have a lovely place. I absolutely love what you’ve done with it. Very eclectic but very tasteful.”
“Thank you. Would you like something to drink?”
“Oh, that reminds me – I got you something!” Luna produces and hands over a carefully wrapped package, which Ryger opens to reveal a vintage bottle of Q’barran wine. “That’s so kind of you,” he says, examining the bottle. “Especially since we’ve never met. Should I open it?”
“Please.”
Ryger pours Luna and himself a large glass each, and then takes a seat near the druid. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. But I see none of your companions came along.”
“No. They had something to do, but I thought meeting you was more important so here I am.”
“So I see. And if you don’t mind me saying so – very well worth the sight. That dress suits you beautifully.”
The nature of reality on Eberron shifts slightly, as Luna actually simpers at the compliment. “Thank you. I was hoping I wasn’t inappropriately dressed for our meeting. By the way, since we’re being honest in exchanging compliments, I’ve got to say that I’ve been incredibly impressed by you once I learned who you were and what you’ve done.”
“Really?” For a moment, Ryger looks slightly surprised.
“Yes. Believe me, I don’t respect people easily, but you’re probably the person I respect more than anyone else. I mean, you’re a genius. Being a pirate prince with your own set of islands? That’s such an awesomely great idea!”
“Well, I’m not actually a pirate…,” begins Ryger, but Luna rushes on, “When I heard about it I felt so foolish for never thinking of that. It’s the perfect life. The sun and the sea, being surrounded by nature, sailing on a ship, not having to deal with the public – it’s beautiful! Believe me, having lived in Sharn, the option of not being surrounded by people is a significant bonus to me. I’m seriously considering the idea of finding a nice island and…”
Ryger simply sips his drink, nods and smiles, not even trying to get a word in edgeways as Luna continues on. Finally, when the torrent of speech slows slightly he says, “Yes, there are great advantages here, but unfortunately I don’t have the freedom I once had, and can’t jump in a ship and sail off wherever I want. Responsibility and politics, you know.”
Luna grimaces sympathetically. “I understand. I hate politics!”
“You’re not the only one. But now, let me regrettably get to business. You’ve already heard the details about the attack here, correct?”
“Yes, but I’d like to hear them from you.”
“All right.” Ryger proceeds to describe the attack, and then asks Luna if she and her companions are interested in finding those who enacted the attack and also recovering what was taken. “I’d prefer it if nobody knew what has been stolen. I can trust your discretion, can’t I?”
“Of course,” says Luna.
“What was taken was a chest of Siberys dragonshards, all of them marked with the same symbol, which is very unusual. There was a rain of dragonshards on the island of Trebez Sinara. Nobody goes there, since the place is overrun by dangerous monsters, but three of my ships were nearby and made a quick stop and recovered what they could. How the attackers knew about it, I don’t know.”
Sh*t! Why dragonshards again? Luna says, “We’ll see what we can do.”
“Thank you. I presume you speak for your friends?”
“Of course.”
“That’s good to know. Naturally, I’ve heard much of you and your companions. I’m curious to hear about your adventures.”
Luna promptly proceeds to tell stories of what the Angels have seen, encountered and done, while Ryger listens with rapt attention. She is careful to not mention anything of Mordain or Nameless’ condition, but is not as reticent about older issues, describing the events surrounding the Key and the rakshasas.
Eventually, after they have sat and chatted for a while, Ryger says, “Would you by any chance be free to join me for dinner? I’ve got some work I have to take care of, but I should be free in three or four hours. And perhaps afterwards we could take a short cruise. Unless there’s somewhere else you need to be tonight?”
Luna smiles coquettishly. “I don’t, and I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”
. . . . .
A few hours later, a very well fed and even more happily tired Luna snuggles up against the naked form of the nominal leader of the Lhazaar Principalities. I am so becoming a pirate princess!
* Since she has the A Thousand Faces ability, Luna can look like whoever she wants. Or just like herself, but better.
** Once I said that he was being played for our campaign by Errol Flynn and showed her an appropriate picture, Luna was as close to smitten as she gets.
